Sangster laughed.
"Marseilles isn't much of a place. Perhaps he really is ill."
Jimmy grunted something unintelligible.
"I doubt it," he added. "And the devil of it is that Christine doesn't believe me. She doesn't think the old idiot's coming home at all; she doesn't believe anything I tell her—now."
"Nonsense!" But Sangster's eyes looked anxious. He had seen a great deal during the last four days, and for the first time there was a tiny doubt in his mind. Had Christine really lost her love for Jimmy? He was obliged to admit that it seemed as if she had. She never spoke to him if she could help it, and he knew that Jimmy was as conscious of the change as he, knew that Jimmy was worrying himself to a shadow.
"Your brother will turn up when you're least expecting him," he said in his most matter-of-fact voice. "You'll see if he doesn't—and then everything will come right."
Jimmy grunted. He fidgeted round the room and came to anchorage in front of the window. He stood staring out into the not very cheerful street.
Sangster knocked the ashes from his pipe and rose.
"Well, we may as well be going," he said. "I thought you told me we were to lunch with your wife."
"So I did. She's gone shopping this morning—didn't want me. I said we'd meet her at the Savoy at one. I want to call in at my rooms first, if you don't mind." Jimmy spoke listlessly. He was a great deal with Sangster nowadays. Christine so often made excuses for him not to be with her, and he had got into that state when he could not tolerate his own company. He dreaded being left to his thoughts; he would not be alone for a minute if he could help it.